


For a Life Of Blood and Snow

by HighElvenKing



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Healing, Imperials, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Revenge, Riften, Scars, Slow Burn, Stormcloaks, Thalmor, Thalmor x Stormcloak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighElvenKing/pseuds/HighElvenKing
Summary: Slow burn/ Hurt and Comfort, gay nonsense with my two elder scrolls ocs, Bjarke and Haerendil. Kind of angsty, but it works up. Does have some implications of very bad things happening to some people. Will be fluffy and full of drama with a happy ending after lots of misery and intrigue. Hope you like!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter, I'm currently studying full time, so updating takes from 1-4 days but I will try to be as fast as possible. Thankyou for reading, and I hope you enjoy :)

Prologue  
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Months had slipped into a year, each day duller than the last, The Summerset Isles was idyllic, beautiful beyond compare, yet it bored Haerendil, it drained him, to even consider wasting away his life on a pampered cushion, being served drinks by ‘lesser races’ and having nothing but political smalltalk to preoccupy him..The very thought was revolting. Unfortunately, and even he had to admit it, he needed to rest, he needed to fade away into time and forget the pain that had happened to him in the cold winter months in Skyrim last year. 

His father of course, had taken explicit glee in his return coupled with a quiet wish that he thought would never come. Haerendil too, agreed, wondering what strange reality that he was in, that it happened. The day he had explicitly stated, asked and demanded that he join the Thalmor..

The Thalmor were a political force, the mere government of the Altmer, yet they wrought such harsh fear and exercised such severe control, they were respectable, powerful and above all in complete control of what lived, breathed and walked in the Aldmeri Dominion territories and rumoured even beyond. Yet, Haerendil had never seen them as anything more than a group of power hungry mer, who sought to drip dry the blood of those who defied them. Despicable cowards.

Yet here he was, Alinor long behind him, garbed in a Thalmor uniform, Oblivion bound to Skyrim. Again. He had spent many years in Skyrim in the past, it was fun, adventurous for a young high elven adult, who thirsted for a life beyond silk pillows. Snow was delightful, rain was something to laugh off, yet he found himself dreading the cold land of the nords now. Frigid discomfort spread like ice crystals in his stomach, his single eye observing the dark blue water and the mist that hung over, the pristine craftsmanship of the altmeri vessel a stark contrast to the sea of Skyrim. ‘Fellow’ Thalmor had tried to be chummy on the journey, though Haerendil had accepted none of it, he could hardly relate to the notion of elven supremacy when flaws stretched across all races. Yet. one thing did attract his eye, no he obsessed over it.

Power, unquestioned, murderous permission. The very concept that he would be able enact vengeance by his own hands without legal issue was enticing beyond belief to him in these times. The assignment he had been given already set off a dark, hateful fire in his being to sow havoc into Stormcloak ranks, against them..And against that cursed half orc…

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Chapter 1  
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In times past, the Rift had been his favourite region, with a seemingly permanent autumn air, the buzz of bees and other harmless insects, the flurry of flowers and the soft rich scent of earth and clean mountain water. However, coming back the region only tore a sore hole in his chest, aching miserably as he forced his gilt lined black boots across the ground. Memories of times gone and soiled, bore into his mind, forcing a scowl on golden scarred features, gloved fingers fussing with his braided blonde hair as he insured it was neatly out of the way. His heart craved blood and suffering of a particular group, and this assignment would grant him that-even if briefly.  
Garbed in a deep black cloak, nimble robe and a fine leather eyepatch that obscured the main morbid remnant of his lost eyeball, he approached the city gates, a scowl one could only describe as deadset hate on his gaunt features as he moved to enter, suddenly feeling a rough steel hand collide to halt him from entering.

“Oi! Elf, pay the tax!” Came the strong accent of a nord, and Haerendil’s golden eye darted to him, brows furrowing in barely quelled fury as he resisted stabbing the man there and now. He could not afford to enact lowly vengeance on men who had little but racial resemblance to the foes he hunted.

“Tax? To get into this rundown dump of corruption? You’ve got to be joking.” The (now) Thalmor Assassin jabbed rigidly, a hand on his sheathed weapon behind his cape, seeing as their faces were obscured he could not tell how they took his words, but brawny arms were folded and snorts were shared by the two guards that stood at the gates.

“Fine, keep it quiet then, smart elf, but someone will catch you.” Was the response, as the uneasy creak of the old wooden doors began to reel, an unfriendly pat was attempted to be granted on the altmer’s back, but was narrowly missed for preference of personal space. The familiar town of Riften greeted his sights and senses, though Haerendil was sadly in no mood to reminisce or even consider taking the day slow and meeting up with old friends. They would hardly recognise what in Oblivion he had become with a missing eye, scars that reached from his forehead to his jaw, nevermind his personality, whatever was left.

Waiting for the night to come was achingly dull, as perhaps stereotypical of any high elf, he abstained from consuming anything aside from light nibbles like bread and dried fruit while in this state of anguished hate, claiming unrest and unwellness to avoid being egged on by the overly friendly argonians to eat more. Later, he bid them good bye with a false a forced smile.

But now it was later, and Haerendil’s taut stomach growled for nourishment, his organs offended by his vengeful fasting. Still he paid no mind, he had rather...crucial business to take care of, having left the inn through a window and leaving the rest of his tracks through muffle and invisibility, he made his way to the Jarl’s hall. He did not care to memorize the name, only the map and where to put the key.

Nimble steps climbed up walls, opened gates without a sound and stepped with silence, the journey was painful, for the guards were numerous and in clumps, meaning any silent kills on them to assist later escapes were a pain. At the moment however, the altmer’s head was a cloud, solely focused on the murder he would be committing tonight, the shed of blood. Haerendil had only killed bandits and criminals in the past, never had he intentionally murdered someone for any reason other than crime. Tonight that would change.

 

In a small room he clambered up the wooden rafters, taking a moment to adjust his breath, as he pulled his hood and mask up, adjusting the patch on his missing eye as it began to itch. The altmer took a moment to refresh the muffle spell as he adjusted the knife on his hip, an imperial blade.. The assignment was to let stir the stormcloak sentiment in the Rift a little more, make them bite more fiercely against the Empire and thus continue their silly war. Now, Haerendil thought it cruel to deliberately manipulate a country into civil war for the purpose of weakening an already broken enemy, but any chance to stab stormcloaks and let them rot and wither and enforce more murder among their ranks was an opportunity he snatched with murderous greed.

Actually using the dull, stocky imperial dagger was not in his perogative however, he would be using his own elven blade, specifically forged and enchanted for this occasion and many more. The creak of the door in the furred floor room caught the altmer’s attention, pointed ears snapping to attention as invisibility covered his body. In walked two nords, arguing..or debating rather aimlessly about the rebellion, one in support and one indifferent. The familiarity of their voices irked him. Oh...Vagnar. THe altmer silently cursed as he recognized the stormcloak fellow, having shared a mead and many jokes not two years ago. He shook his head, forcing his heart to harden, this was different now, after what the stormcloaks did to him, Trinimac knows how he loathed them.

Twenty minutes of aching waiting passed before at long last, the other man left the room, leaving Vagn--the stormcloak officer alone, quietly the nord dutifully poured a glass of mead into a mug, however he was sorely interrupted when a blade was suddenly driven in his back with such ferocity that the glass was dropped with a sudden shatter.

“Shit..” Haerendil swore as he guided the nord to the ground, indifferent to the blood that spilled onto his gloves as adrenaline rushed through his lean body. The nord gave a few chokes, attempting to grab at his murderer before eyes widened with recognition.

“Haerendil?!” Vagnar exclaimed in a low choking voice, which took the high elf by surprise, urging him to slap the hands away and rush to get the imperial blade.

“Dammit, Haer.. Thought ye’ were above all this.. Thalmor prattle.” He spoke- it struck the altmer, how sad the man sounded, though he did not let him finish as he forced himself to thrust the next blade straight into his chest, grimacing at the sound of the dagger embedding into the man’s skin and body, forcing the life out of him before he spoke more.

The altmer foolishly stood, stunned and unmoving, thoughts racing incoherently as he stared at his bleeding fingers, taking a breath, anger rushed through him too as he tried to sooth his doubt with vengeful intentions and detachment. This one was like the rest.. He was nothing, he was nothing..

“Haerendil?! Good gods, What are you doing!” Came an all too familiar, voice and Haerendil could have sworn he had hallucinated it before he felt an iron grip on his shoulder, harshly pulling him up, a rigid gasp was given shaking him from his thoughts, the man who held him froze his heart to ice and set alight panic in his stomach like a wild storm.  
The Thalmor assassin wasted no time in getting away.He ran, he ran with invisibility barely clinging to his shoulders as he fled, legs pounding on the soil and pavement. How did this happen, how was that cursed Half orc there?!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional roller-coaster, featuring gentle giant Bjarke and fiery banana elf.

The arrival of the exquisitely neat written letter had taken the half orc by surprise, he recognised the handwriting, yet after the rather colourful evening two days ago it came as a heavy surprise that the fleeing assassin would attempt to contact him after that stunt.. Bjarke was no stranger to violence, but seeing someone he considered a close friend getting murdered by someone he..considered even closer, was upsetting even for his tough hide. That was Haerendil, he was sure of it, he could recognise that mer’s voice- and specifically cursing, a mile away, and he had that gaunt attractiveness that he recalled in wistful sorrow as being slender and smooth to the touch.

Like the fool he was, he had decided to see where following the letter’s instructions got him, he could practically hear his orcish mother cursing his common sense as she did when he let his thoughtless rashness take charge. Bjarke gave an audible sigh as staring at the serene and soft patter of the autumn leaves hovering and rolling in the wind seemed to grant him no comfort nor distraction. He hated waiting for something bad to happen, and mentally he imagined that same cruel elven dagger piercing through his own chest. He had not even thought to put on any armour aside from thickened hide and leather, and that would not save his sorry green tinted skin from a blade forged with high elven magic.

In fact, even more of an issue. Haerendil was a Thalmor now, while the mer had spoken against the intimidating high elven faction in the past, what had happened had obviously changed his political opinions or made him that desperate. Even as..something of a Stormcloak. However, Bjarke recalled briefly in sour memory that their clashing factions-or rather races, was one of the reasons Haerendil had been humiliated so revoltingly and inhumanely by his ‘kin’. The memory was quickly tossed aside, brushed to be dwelt on later..

The sudden emergence of a figure clad in black with gilded threads took him by surprise and his hand almost instinctively whipped to take one of the battleaxes at his side, though he hesitated long enough to recognise the same figure from two days prior. Bjarke let off a heavy breath as he returned his arms in a more relaxed position, trying to do his best to show he meant no threat. Even as his mind fired with warning signals and instincts, his mind alone was all that remained guarded, for his fool heart was ...thankful even to see the spritely altmer, even after all that had happened.

“Haer..” He murmured in some sappy sense of relief, his tusks pressing against his upper lips in a saddened smile before he frowned, lowering his head and eyes in heavy guilt- regardless of the obvious danger that the-- now Thalmor possessed towards him. 

A cold snort came from the figure, and he could hear the sound of fine elven cloth being moved around as he barely caught the altmer removing his hood and mask. Bjarke knew this mer well enough to know a storm was brewing in his mouth as a rigid silence that had the half orc wishing he had an elf’s ability to twitch his ears down like a rebuked cat.

“You….I’ve recited speeches for the day we finally met again, for when I saw you, a miserable coward, bleating before me with excuses.” The altmer began, voice cutting through him like a freshly sharpened ice, he could hear laboured breathing from the high elf, rage and hurt radiating off him almost physically.

Bjarke had naught to say in response however, not even lifting his head as he stood motionless, letting the altmer say his peace. 

“Do you have any fucking idea how much it hurt? I ask rhetorically of course, how could you understand, you just had to watch while they tore me up, - ruining fucking… everything about me!” Haerendil shouted, fists curled as he continued pacing madly, brows curled teeth clenched, those pointy elven ears flattened with emotion. The half orc grimaced when he heard that crack in the altmer’s voice,the guilt in his heart felt like it dragged at his feet, much as he felt he had words to say on the matter, Bjarke full heartedly believed he deserved the rebuke no matter what he had done to try and stop what had...happened to his lover.

The sudden feel of slender fingers gripping his bearded jaw to look at the figure who stood at his collarbone. The half orc complied, pale eyes looking at the scarred face of Haerendil, now with no mask or hood on, he could see the full extent of the scars that remained, and shock him they did. 

The eyepatch from before was pulled back, revealing the hollow hole of what was once a beautiful almond shaped eye that was always aglow with mischief and quick wit. There was nothing but a morbid scarred mess now, and the knife marks reached onto his angular cheek and across his honey blonde brows. His right ear was severely scarred, a prosthetic replacement expertly stitched into the seam where it had been cut off, though the remnants of the damage remained, and one could tell the muscles that allowed them to move were just that little bit slower. There were other marks were lesser wounds were. Bjarke’s roughened features softened in sorrow as he dared to look into the gleaming eye that remained.

He could feel the altmer’s gloved hands shaking, he could see the hot glaze of wetness that went over his eye, and it killed the half orc inside to watch one he had known to be so refined and proper to be so utterly changed and broken as a person.

“My face isn’t the only scarred item of course, ‘bet you would love to see what those…..t-they… did to my body..” The altmer spat with raw hateful vitriol, his chest heaving. The Half orc could take no more and decided to speak up, pressing his far larger hands on the lean set elf’s tensed shoulders, holding him gently, but firmly- enough to hopefully prevent immediate violent impulses from the other.

“Haerendil...There’s nothing I can say that can really convey how sorry I am, and..’m aware that ain’t even an appropriate response.. There is’n an excuse I can make.. All that happened..I tried, but Trinimac knows I wasn’ strong enough to intervene..And I don’t think I’ll stop regretting that till time ends..I blame myself, you blame me, I can’t fault you for that.” Bjarke poured out in guilty sorrow, his voice remained sturdy enough but he felt his heart sink, he tried his hardest to maintain eye contact, difficult as it was and as hard as he felt his tusks tensely pressing against his skin.

Haerendil was silent for a long moment, and though he turned to hide it, the tear that ran across his severe angled features was not missed, a grimacing scowl was given as he shut his eyes, confliction seeming to run through the altmer’s mind, before he pressed his head to the orc’s broad chest, banging a fist against Bjarke’s torso in frustrated defeat before his fingers uncurled.

“Gods fucking dammit..” The elf swore- half muffled by the fur covered hide armour. Tensely beginning to idly scratch his slender fingers into the half orc’s clothes. Bjarke almost snorted with wistful amusement, recalling very deeply the familiar mannerism the altmer so often gave when frustrated. However his heart still ached, and he shifted, carefully as he could attempting to gently pat the other’s back.

“I’m not expecting ye’ to come back to me at all..But if there’s absolutely anything I can do to ...help or prove my apology, just say ‘aight? “ The half orc rumbled softly, eyelids drooping slightly as he swallowed, his fool heart feeling that familiar pang of adoration for the altmer, even in spite of the circumstance. It was a good long while before the elf responded, Bjarke did not push him to speak however, merely keeping his eyes on the honey blonde haired altmer and their surroundings, his large-if not clumsy (if he did so say himself) attempting to caress the hard lean back of the shorter high elf.

“..Meet me at the Bee and Barb tonight..we’ll..talk more, gods know there is a lot more to talk about..But..” Haerendil trailed off, his remaining eye was reddened from his earlier burst of emotion, and even now his voice was still uncharacteristically static and slowed. A deep sigh was given, that beautiful pale golden eye averting to the side as the altmer bit his lips. Bjarke himself let off a slow exhale as he nodded, his mind was a flurry of emotions and feelings, he did not egg the altmer to finish what he had to say however, merely shifting away from their touch in quiet response with a brief- tusk filled smile to assure the mer.

“‘Aight I’ll see ye’ there, take care of yourself, Haer..” Bjarke spoke, beginning to turn, he did not give Haerendil any more stares, much as he wanted to lay his eyes back on the high elf-whom he still thought was more beautiful and intense than whoever was in aetherius, he had the sensitivity to know that the prideful altmer would wish no more stares or looks in his vulnerability.

The elf definitely had more to say, he could hear it in his breath and lips, but evidently the farewell was succinct enough to his satisfaction. The half orc did not see him leave, but he presumed he had left in the same way he came in that menacing magic disappearing move.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst, little bit of fluff though! No sex yet (sorry haha) and Miserable emo banana elf. Thankyou so much for reading!

Gowned in black robes that fit his slender and lean figure snugly, the altmer looked suitably refined with elegant gold stitching and segments of glass armour, even along his gloves, his honey blonde hair was let loose, stretching over and covering most of his scarred face, though the bandaged silk on his eye was noticeable at a second glance even under the curtain of soft hair.

Haerendil looked as fine as any altmer outside of Alinor should, as well as not looking obviously like a Thalmor member. Though that did not stop the occasional drunk nord from giving him a dirty or fearful look, though some did not care, even cheerfully offering him a drink. Haerendil sourly refused all offers, merely nursing a glass of mulled wine. It bothered him silently how painfully altmeri he had become after returning home two months prior. But the current mental association of Skyrim- and specifically nords and this stormcloak supporting rats nest...It proved enough to put even his personal tastes with that of his ass of a father.

The altmer’s golden lips curled around the goblet’s metal rim again, giving a sigh before he felt a hand press to his back, the altmer immediately jolted up, unsheathing his dagger in an instant to threaten whoever touched him, his cold eye was slit before realizing who he was threatening- and the attention drawn from the rest of the Bee and Barb’s taverns. An ear batted in minor irritation and embarrassment as he felt eyes pierce through him, a ‘sorry’ was murmured to one of the nearby argonian tavern keepers.

“Bjarke..” He spoke, sheathing the elven dagger among his robes again as he gave a tense sigh, pressing lips together as his eye stared at the side for a moment, though he did not prolong the silence this time as he gestured for the other to sit opposite to him, slender legs slipping to sit at the chair as he lowly looked up at the half orc, trying to force himself not to smile even a slight at the stupid man’s goofy jubilance. The altmer distracted himself by neatening his hair, not saying anything for the moment as the half orc organized food and drink for them. It stung Haerendil how familiar the situation was, the two of them sitting and relaxing in a tavern, sharing a table, eating and drinking together. He brushed the thought away as he recalled what had taken place that morning.

“Haerendil..Yer’ looking refined as Dibella herself.” The half orc rumbled in a pleasant tone, tusks curled in a very genuine smile. Haerendil, swallowed, still trying to maintain his expression of dour seriousness as he distracted himself by taking another sip of his wine, he still felt intense anger and hurt by the half orc, but in the very least he was not contemplating wicked things happening to him anymore. Bjarke’s cursed sincere words earlier had calmed some of the beast that his sore heart had been nursing towards the half orc. He did not bother reflecting that the Altmer did not revere Dibella, deciding instead to just take the compliment.

“And you are looking..” Haerendil trailed off for a moment, finally glancing up to look at the large half nord- half orc. With his shoulder length hair brushed and braided with metal beads and a plain blue shirt with more than a few patches (and poorly done stitches) as well as a tough brown jerkin, and clean pants with a little less patches.

“Like yourself.” The altmer surmised, giving a stern huff, though he could not help the slight smile that crept on his golden lips, pressing them together quickly as he felt his features shift in suc a way, though evidently- ever the empathetic, Bjarke had caught it and was now grinning like a recently pet dog.

“So...Are you still a Stormcloak?” The Thalmor assassin decided to inquire, out of all that was said this morning, that question had been the one he had wanted to press upon the most. Glancing as the argonian Keereva handed them each a bowl of steaming stew, which he decidedly poked with his fork a few times in tense waiting for the half orc’s answer.

“Sort of.. ‘ Been wanting to leave, ‘n so have the lot up north..So I’m kind of on some low end shit assignment here, wasting away..Rightfully so, I think..” Bjarke responded more seriously, the smile fading into a morose frown as he stared at his food.

“ Ye’ said it yourself Haer, ‘m a bit of a damned coward.” 

Haerendil gave a slow nod as he took in a breath, going quiet for a moment as he thought it over, Bjarke was never one to lie, said it went against what both Nord’s and Orc’s did, which Haerendil mused he was grateful for, but it did still pain him to know the other was still with...them.

“..I see.” 

“It would expl--” The altmer was cut off when he saw Bjarke eating his food right out of the bowl, with awkward slurping in between. Caught off guard by the act, the altmer barely muffled the laugh that burst in his throat, covering his mouth with his glove as his chest still released a few chuckles. The half orc seemed pleased with bringing the reaction out of the more refined mer. Sternly forcing himself to regain his bearings Haerendil combed his honey blonde hair behind pointed erect ears as he took another quick sip of his wine.

“Barbarian.” The high elf remarked teasingly, shaking his head with a half smirk before continuing to the more serious topic.

“I’m..sorry about two days ago, since I’m gathering you had to clean..the mess up.” Haerendil spoke with a chagrined scowl, eyes darted to the side, as he tensed up, gloved fingers clasping together as he scratched at the wood.

Pricked ears caught the sound of more slurping before the sound of swallowing- probably a bit too much mead in one go, before the half orc shifted to speak.

“Well I won’t lie, it was a damned good mess..But y’know, I’m happier to see you, over any stress ‘n sorrow I felt over it.” Bjarke spoke with a bit of a forced smile, but Haerendil knew his words were genuine from the tone alone, even if the tusks pressed on his face made the half orc less intimidating than he probably was.

“Hmph, Still.” Haerendil reasoned, still feeling some trace of guilt over having murdered in cold blood someone the two of them had once considered a mutual friend. Their ‘romantic dinner ‘ went silent for a time, with Bjarke happily scarfing down his food and Haerendil eating slow and steadily, leaving a good quarter of remnants which he fed to his half orc. The Thalmor made no move to say it but he was most grateful that the other man had picked up that despite the great deal to talk about, words came slowly and not nearly as gracefully as he wanted.

After the two had paid their owed coin for the meal, drinks and..apparently night, Haerendil silently lead the lumbering giant to the stairway where noisy and jubilant (or morose) patrons were in significant less number.

“So.. I guess goodbye?” Bjarke spoke, clasping his large olive green fingers together as he glanced to the walls. The altmer clenched his eyes together with a slight grimace, mentally reviewing his actions as his uptight thoughts and mood fought against his current decision. Taking a moment to massage the sharply angled bridge of his nose with slim finger tips his single eye shot to the half orc with a degree of sternness.

“No, you will be staying with..me tonight.” He spoke as firmly as he could, to which the half orc’s brawny features lit up with a delighted grin, before quickly trying to smother it as he lumbered up the wooden stairs to join Haerendil’s side, standing a good head and neck above him- along with all large build, there was a slight shadow cast over him, though the altmer did not fear such a man giving an playful pat to his chest before he strode over with refined steps to a dimly lit bedroom. Haerendil was in no mood nor mental state to deal with sexual matters, and he..perhaps foolishly still put a great deal in the half orc, especially in matters such as this. But he did want the half orc, his stupid heart was still all too happy to have the slightest excuse against his hurt’s better judgement to go running back to the man he used to adore so much- and perhaps still did.

Settling himself on the furred top blanket, he idly began to unlace his boots, his single eye and slowly twitching right ear monitoring the half orc as his presence was signaled by a notable indent in the plush mattress beside the lean mer, a mirthful snort left his golden features as he continued to undress, placing his top coat, boots gauntlets and the black bandage that was lain on his eye meticulously placed beside one another on the shabbily carved end table in the room. A loose black undercoat remained, along with a layer of underclothes beneath, all kept the cold mostly off, a degree of golden chest revealed with the looser robes, though it unfortunately had numerous nasty scars like his facial features.

Bjarke waited patiently, ever the polite creature- staring to the side to give him some privacy, before the altmer returned to his side, pressing a knee on the half orc’s muscular thigh, slender fingers curling around his shoulders as he slowly lowered, tension still in his movements and a stiff yet flustered frown on his angular features.

“I will be honest with you, Bjarke, I’m..not in any mood to get frisky tonight and your large arse best respect that lest you want an elven blade in your sternum, beyond affectionate touch, but-” 

“Y’ missed me?” Bjarke interrupted with a complacent little grin- like a child with stolen candy. The altmer gave a petulant frown for a moment before snorting without a verbal response, for as always the damned half orc was right. Wordlessly Haerendil closed in on the orc’s features slowly. Full golden lips pressing gently to the half orc’s lips, tasting the remnants of mead upon it as he closed his eyes, leaning against the man more as his tense body slowly eased against Bjarke’s own, starved for affection and really--..this damned man’s touch, the high elf found himself tenderly leaning against the orc, enjoying the refreshing feeling of their mouths meeting in soft mutual affection. There was still a lot to heal between the two and what had happened, but Haerendil could appreciate the small step of kissing.

Bjarke’s large hands gathered in the small of the lean altmer’s back, squeezing softly as he leaned into his golden neck, those tusks poking into his sensitive skin, leaving the mer giving a soft gasp of approval, before the half orc knowingly nibbled gently on the mer’s pointed-none synthetic ear. Haerendil gave a soft hum of approval. Though suddenly eased off of Bjarke, as something horribly sick tore at his stomach, he tried to play it off, but could feel upset tearing at him as those gods damned memories boiled up like a wailing spirit, constantly tormenting and reminding him in unseen flashes in his head. The half orc evidently noticed- most likely due to his damned betraying ears, which he found to be flattened, poking out of his soft hair.

“Haer?” Came the stupid Half orc’s stupid caring voice.. Haerendil took a breath to try and calm himself down, immediately regretting doing this, what was he thinking? He was bloody broken, both physically and mentally, how dare he try to have one nice thing back, no the gods just had to make every part miserable.

The high elf was distracted from his hurt sorrows when half orc stood up, and removed his jerkin, though left his shirt on, leaving just enough olive green skin to be tasteful. Again- to his flustered frustration he realized that Bjarke was not moving to touch him to comfort him this time, which means he must have caught on. Feeling a head of humiliation embarrassment, the altmer turned to fold his arms, feeling a pang of pain as the torn muscle of his right ear could lower no further.

“‘I’m sorry, I didn’ mean to upset ye’..Haer, we can go to sleep now if ‘ye wish, or I can leave.. I really don’t mind, ‘Just want you to feel ok.” The half orc offered, still holding the hide jerking as if he was ready to put it on if the altmer so told him too.

To his frustration, communicating the issue was a lot harder without breaking down in another upsetting and humiliating breakdown. He could feel his eyes grow hot, but he refrained, tensely clawing at the furs on the bed as he stared at the wall. He was not sure what would make him feel better..For the first time he had someone who knew...no-- had lain witness-even against his own will to that cursed event.

“...Let’s just sleep,.” He spoke, again- far too tersely for his taste, but his throat refused to give out any more words or appropriate apologies to how he was now this..highly sensitive, volatile mess of a high elf. 

 

Bjarke gave a compassionate nod, tusks lowered in a sad-though caring frown, much to Haerendil’s flustered irritation as he already felt immensely weak for putting up such a fuss over...nothing. Not that it was nothing in his head, but it felt like it, and he felt bad for how much the half orc cared, it felt wasted on him, a shattered porcelain doll, with no remnant of any likable feature or personality he once had.

Brushing aside the bothersome low self esteem and self loathing, the altmer shifted under the covers, watching as the half orc joined him, the difference in weight quite evidence by the dimpling of the bed mattress, though it served as some form of grim amusement for the upset mer. Carefully, Haerendil moved back to the half orc, settling his torso and arms atop his large breathing chest, dutifully forcing intrusive thoughts away for the moment as he placed his left facial features to Bjarke’s pleasantly warm olive sternum. His remaining eye briefly darted to look at the half orc who was watching- with content concern. 

“You can stroke me if you want, just only my back.” He informed, giving a deep sigh before he forced his remaining eye closed, his body relaxing from the earlier debacle- or as much as it could. The assistance of those familiar large hands caressing the tense curves of his slender back did help, and even as his thoughts stressfully buzzed, it was..nice to have the half orc here and holding him, the dark hair on his chest did tickle slightly- but the feeling was welcome compared to the raw itching his scarred eye felt.

Much more as there was to say, the altmer was exhausted by the day, and soon drifted asleep, content in the larger male’s muscular embrace and the pleasant share of body heat on the cold Skyrim evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly scruffy chapter, sorry Uni overtook me but I was desperate to update, hope you like!

The next morning’s afterglow hung in Bjarke’s thoughts hours afterwards, he could still smell remnants of the altmer’s perfume, that delightfully sweet spiced smell that he would probably replace with oxygen if he could..Having never left Skyrim, he really was not sure how high elves procured such pleasant smells. Skyrim of course had an enjoyable earthen smell, with rich forests, mountain flowers, snowberries and of course rain and fresh dirt, but it was no basket of exotic flowers.

“You awake in there?” Came the familiar voice of the altmer, his single eye giving the half orc a wry look before looking ahead, poised solemnly on a black horse, trotting at a slow pace to keep up with his walk, Bjarke was...still not sure what was going on, but he was beyond pleased to be travelling with the altmer again, and hopefully making amends for the past. 

“So..Y’ mentioned we were headin’ to the imperial camp...y’sure that’s safe for both of us?” The half orc inquired, adjusting his jerkin a slight, as he looked at the altmer, who’s head was still high, his single eye focused intently on the road.

“Quite, I can play the Thalmor card, which means they will have more than Stormcloaks to worry about.” Haerendil responded, an ear batting a moment as he slowed his horse ever slightly, just to keep up with his lumbering lover.

“Fancy..Fancy, so...this Thalmor thing...What’s the opinions, I’ll..love ye’ regardless, but I would like to know.” Bjarke asked honestly, noting the brief swallow- and the gentle rise and fall of the high elf’s chest with a sigh.

“Honestly, can’t say my opinions have changed..The Thalmor offered a road to vengeance though, and Xen willing that’s what I get..But, no if you’re worried about me having things against nords or suddenly refusing to share bowels with ‘lesser’ people. I’m afraid I’m still the black sheep in my family in that respect.” Haerendil spoke with a wistful smirk, there was some bitter sadness in his voice- and the half orc did feel for him in being separate from his family 

Bjarke was quite relieved to hear that, while he would always adore that natural high elven snootiness that Haerendil had, xenophobia was not something he liked in others, hating factions was fine, but entire races of people was another thing entirely.

The two talked as they journeyed through the permanently autumn strewn rift, the soft leaf fall and gentle winds certainly did ease some anxiety that the half orc had about talking to imperials- people from the empire. He had never liked the Empire, no true nord or orc had any good opinions about the decadent old remnants of a bygone empire. And though Haerendil had assured him that they would not be working with the imperials for his plan of vengeance, it still felt ill to be turning imperials loose- even as they were indirectly using them as bait for the stormcloaks- to kill people. 

He had been a stormcloak, he knew a good lot were just innocent nords looking for a free homeland- like himself, not realising the mixed motives, xenophobia and power hunger that festered in the higher ranks, as well as the fact-- according to Haerendil, it was in the Thalmor prerogative to have created the Stormcloaks, Ulfric himself was a puppet.

The sick feeling in his stomach only sank deeper at the sight of the camp as it rose into view, the red uniform and banners with dragons on them billowing like omens of death to the half orc, who neared protectively to the confident high elf, who dismounted, walking with Bjarke in toe to the suspicious soldiers who eyed the two, though had the sense to recognise the Thalmor insignia upon the altmer’s robes.

“I request a meeting with the Legate here, I have crucial information pertaining to nearby Stormcloak activities.” Haerendil began in a formal tone, emotion seemingly drained from his angled features, one of the imperial’s cast a doubtful look but nodded, dutifully leading the two strangers through the camp into a large tent, standing by the exist.

To Bjarke’s surprise it was an altmer who was the apparent legate, he felt a sense of dread, briefly pondering what would drive a mer to stand against his people’s government that harshly,. Sure, him and Haerendil had no love for the Thalmor..or the Dominion as a whole, but the Empire was hardly better.

“Legate Fasendil. These two claim to have important information on Stormcloak activity.” The guard informed before being dismissed by a militaristic wave of the Legate’s golden hand, before the altmer faced them, a particularly disdainful look pointed at Haerendil- unsurprisingly.

“Speak quickly then, Thalmor, I won’t pretend you two are welcome here..” Fasendil addressed with a cyrodiilic accent, not bothering to note the half orc’s presence. Bjarke had the assumption the other probably thought him as a stupid naive native who got paid to follow a Thalmor monster...How far it strayed from the truth.

“There’s a hold of rather important officers up north, one in particular is on my hit list for classified reasons, they’re relaying commands and making guerrilla attacks, not someone you would miss if destroyed.” Haerendil began, folding his arms, his cold single eye piercing the other, Bjarke briefly admired his skillful wording, having never had any particular grace in speech.

“And I take it you two are aware it is audacious to go charging in by your lone selves, so you want us to make a presumptuous charge instead..And I can’t even guarantee this ‘hold’ exists..Our scouts have not found anything” The Legate responded flatly, placing a golden hand on the map table as he idly fiddled with a pin, he wanted Haerendil to argue for their assistance.

“I have inside information.” Haerendil informed, giving a side glance at Bjark with a small smirk before it resumed into his formal seriousness. The altmeri legate’s eyes slit, giving a suspicious look at both of them, giving a heavy sigh he paused to rub the bridge of his nose, before folding his hands behind his back looking up at Bjarke before at the Thalmor with a firm frown.

“Tomorrow, 6 am sharp, three soldiers and myself will have you escort to us to this ‘hold’ if it proves incorrect or a trap, it's a serious liability for you Thalmor, trust me on that.. Till then, you are both dismissed” Fasendil stated firmly, shifting to the guard at the tent.

“Show them to a spare tent, and guard them until tomorrow.” The Legate ordered, giving a dismissive flick of his hand, muttering with some irritation at the ‘ironies of keeping a Thalmor in camp’ though Haerendil did not seem to take it personally, as he turned to the large half orc, offering a wink as they were lead along, a few more stares offered before they were in seclusion in the tent, two beds within- and some privacy by the canvas sheet tent curtains. Better than expected for disliked guests, though Bjarke suspected it doubled as a prison, there was not much room for sneaking out and it could be monitored perfectly.

The half orc settled on one of the beds, taking the two battle axes hooked on his side and placing them on the cheap fur covers before he glanced to Haerendil, smirking before bursting into a tusk filled grin at the way the altmer paced, and the serious smile he wore, as if everything was falling into plan.

“What ye’ suppose that Legate’s problem was?” He questioned idly, to which Haerendil offered a shrug, pausing his pacing a moment as he turned, that beautiful haughtiness in full shine.

 

“Something against the Thalmor no doubt, not that I can blame him, he’s still a prick though.” The altmer reasoned, turning and sitting beside the orc looking up at him, Bjarke snorted- falling into hearty chuckles.

“Aye, s’pose it ain’t our business..” Bjarke mused as he felt a slender arm curl up and sit on his shoulder, forcing a flustered grin from the large half orc.

“I have got a few ideas how to be petty though, are you in?” Haerendil spoke in a quiet mischievous tone, that single golden eye alight with a mixture of both devilry and spite.

“For you? Always..”


End file.
